PS 3505 
.H5 P6 
1920 
Copy 1 







Ai 3 ml 





Class JLO-3£_0£ 
Book_Jii£Pk— 



Copyright N"*, 



l^^o 



COPyRSGHT DEPOSm 



POEMS 



By 

Henrietta M. Chase 
•I 

GROTON. MASS. 



Boston 

Nathan Sawyer &. Son, Inc., Printers 

41 Pearl Street 

1920 



tp^ 






Copyrighted 1920 
By Elizabeth E. I^owe 



0)C!.A605555 



^VV17 1 



Contents 

Page 

Mothers, — Their Day 7 

A Reversal to Type ' . . . . 8 

Song. A. C. H. : " 

The Wind and the Flag ^^ 

The New Order ^3 

Patriots' Day ^4 

First Anniversary, Hawthorne Chapter, O. E. S. i6 

Fill the Bill 

Twentieth Century • • • ^9 

Conscience ^^ 

The Message of Those Lilies 22 

Cripple's Consolation 23 

26 

Yellow Violets 



Poems 



Poem s 

Mothers, — Their Day 

May 12, 1912 

Just the very best ever 

Be the age now beginning, 
In your deft hands a lever 

That shall set things a-spinning. 

There's need of the spinner's skein, 

Of the fuller's and dyer's art. 
That the garments of youth withstand the strain 

Of mire, and mill, and mart. 

Nor web nor woof fail inert 

If only spinner wind true 
Such tested threads as may one day girt 

Riven worlds and make good as new. 

Mother Earth herself's just a spinner. 
Convoying the threads that we wind, 

Nor stopping, the splendid old winner, 
Any sorry tangles to mind; 

But with whirr and with lilt she gauges 
And holds to the threads, that's the thing; 

Till, a boon to the galloping ages. 

She has them all wound on her string ! 

So fall in, and line up, spinning Mothers, 

Toilless lilies are no guide for you ! 
Set the pace for the fathers and brothers, 

For their bally old spinning won't do! 



POEMS 



A Reversal to Type 

For the Old First Parish Meeting House 
1754 — Groton — 1918 

Spring reigns. On high, the sun spreads wide his scales 
Heavy with season's press, trick that new Spring avails, 
Setting dials even for March day or night, 
Short-shrifting old Winter, sun-dried in his plight. 

Thus season ranks season, one's progress imposed 
On the fall of a former spent monarch deposed; 
And the pliant old earth has registered all 
The aeons of change that have answered their call. 

Take the hint, each wee blade of waiting new grass 
Hid close 'neath old belfry where worshippers pass. 
Push your neat folds aloft clear of soot-blackened soil, 
O'erarch it with emerald, white church for a foil. 

'Tis the gauge of your tints mark the scope of a spring 
Long at work under ground in forehanded mingling 
Of life-forces vast threaded tight through the mold 
Left by other life force, left broken, grown cold 

In frost-hardened network that smothered all mark, 
It still holds largess for new life to embark. 
And each hillock's slope is a base of supplies 
To guard against loss. Only mind could devise 

Such means to remodel old life to new need, 
And place in the ground in excess of meed. 
Silent, uniform sentries of life, not still. 
Not swerved from their own, on the way to fulfil 



POEMS 

A royal decree of the sunbeams whose throne 

Is the floor of the world, where all paths lead home 

To seekers for light. Thus a place in the sun 

Was found for this old church when thought had outrun 

A narrowing creed. On the heights rose the church, 
A pioneer stout as oak, maple or birch 
That crowded about, swarming transcripts of light 
Whose glorified fall lent fair shape and still might 

To these outside church walls. Nor lacking in weight 
Was the timber inside, that, with pious debate 
Held down the warped lid of their puzzle-chest sound 
(But let some juggle through, quite enough to go round 

And puzzle their offspring). But clarified scope 
Came with modeling minds, till, braced by great hope. 
Our patriarch founders' whole-hearted toil 
Transmitted their light through time's mist and turmoil 

To guide present day thought. Old church on the hill. 
Material, militant, divine in the thrill 
Your human creed weaves through our common ideas 
Constructive, alive, through procession of years. 

Quicken the visible church to energized deeds. 

Its invisible life to a purpose that reads 

All history aright for the story that's fraught 

With the meaning light holds for new tendrils of thought. 

Read thus, man's mind works itself up from the clod. 
On the way to its own, to hold converse with God. 
Divinity's span is so near, so secure, 
So stable a girder 'twixt two worlds that endure 

Side by side, seen and not seen, — each true to form, — 
That it hath no need of foundation or dome. 
Because of his own need, man quarried a ledge 
For this church comer-stone, with sharp cutting edge 



10 POEMS 

Turned 'gainst error and gloom. Its strong upward thrust 
Still bears structural ideals built by hands long since dust. 
Ah, the work of those hands, how it outlived their stay. 
To charm passers-by since the old stage-coach's slow day. 

How it scorns nascent speed, with its harrowing bray. 
And looks down on smooth varnish of the touring car gay! 
How it touches warm hearts that are throbbing to-day. 
While each round of its clock swings mortality's way! 

But, good cheer for all ! those old founders have scored 
For their early ideals with our own parish board. 
They declare for that first architectural form. 
Modeled two hundred years before they were born. 

That it's faith's household word, a four-square means of grace; 
That through church, state and schools, has won a large place 
In the civilized world's slow march to the fore. 
And should go on, repeating, as now, evermore. 

And lest we, the grandchildren of men, should forget 

Those other grandsires whose tall frames are set 

In church lintel and post, shall we linger to hear 

What their descendants, our trees, are whispering so near? 

They plan some high lights for earth's festival nigh, 
When Spring, high commander shall come tiptoeing by! 
Then they'll send white sap on a colorate raid, 
Tingeing every tree fibre a different shade. 

Resilient to all Spring's loveliest pranks, 
They salute while she shells, in their mobilized ranks. 
The buds set by last year's Autumnal pursuits, 
And so keep full tree ranks for new building recruits. 

Their heritage grows but by seasonal increase 

In that pith that makes good for men's building decrees. 

Our heritage grows by the outpouring of gifts 

That enrich church annals for each cent'ries' uplift. 



POEMS II 



Song. A. C. H. 

March, 1900 

Once, pilgrim verse made common cause 
With singer's art. Loose-robed, foot sure. 
Each climbed to song's redoubt, nor paused 
Till hoarded music's beckoning lure 
Made guest and heir of each. 
Through song's exacting course, 
Long golden range of art, 
Each pilgrim found the way 
To universal heart. 

And then, heart echoes, sharing change 
Recast to fuller, finer rhyme 
Fragments of song content that range 
Past singer's art or pilgrim's time, 
To form new votive shrine, 
Where ready echo waits 
The stride of ageless art. 
Where hang the wayside lamps 
Beloved of pilgrim heart. 

If late their coursing wide should speed 
'Gainst wordless might of human moan 
See monstrous deed and insane creed 
And hollow ringing vows o'erthrown 

By hearts song swept! 
Man's need of thee, thou drive 
Of mistral age-long art : 
God's place for thee, thou song. 
Thou song that found His heart. 



12 POEMS 

The Wind and The Flag 

May, 1896 

Fair breeze of the city, far gales of the sea 
Spread aloft to our vision the dear flag of the free. 

See it wave and pulse and beat 

Like the heart of the grand old sea, 

As it stretches its arms all lands to greet. 

Where flow the tides of its life so free. 
Now ye life-giving North winds breathe your soul in its fibre 
Till each delicate thread respond like the lyre 
Attuned to the magic of Orpheus' hand, 
Enchanting, en thrilling all conditions of man 
With its long song of freedom through strife on to glory, 
Its love-note of home ever charming in story. 
Its blithesome reveille calling young heroes forth 
To fight for Old Glory, O, bold Wind of the North! 

And what of the South wind? Doth its languor entwine 
Our beautiful flag 'gainst the hard Southern pine? 
See it ripple and coil and fly 
In the dusk of the warm Southern glade 
Whence to heaven once rose its bond children's cry 
Where once in despair bowed the heart of the slave. 
Up ! tremulous South wind, glad healing to bring 
To a nation long pining, a nation whose sin 
Reaped the terrible whirlwind whose merciless breath 
Cut its track of destruction and sorrow and death. 
Now linger sweet wind round each barren hearth-stone 
Till Vesta rekindle home fires that once shone 
O'er stalwart young frames now moldering to dust, 
Ah, breathe low soft winds for home voices long hushed. 

Meet all winds of heaven, from the Westward blow free, 

Waft America's spirit o'er land and o'er sea. 
May it comfort and succor and ease 
All the depth of humanity's woe. 
May its beautiful emblem just homage receive. 
May the bond become free wheresoe'er it may go. 



POEMS 13 

Help, marvelous trade winds, to sweep from the skies 

All the deadly mirage of monarchical lies 

That long with false guerdon the East hath misled 

And e'en to our own Western islands hath spread. 

Then make haste, circling winds, and girdle earth's zone. 

Giving course to the empire of freemen alone, 

That aye Westward advances while loud pgeans ring: 

East, West, North, and South — God only is King. 



The New Order 

(Sung to the tune of " The Star Spangled Banner.") 

Carry on, flag of fate! For man's destined estate 
Brave the fight for the right that exalteth a nation. 
Shed the light of your stars through the far verge of wars 
Where bowed hosts, slow of sight, wait the range of your vision. 
Never purpose of yours through the long steadfast years 
E'er broke faith with the call of humanity's tears. 
And now, through woe's tempest, you are challenged to save 
A world from mad rule, a sane faith from the grave. 

Carry on, flag of fate! The sane order spread wide 

As the dome of the sky 'bove the Old World's sad pleadings. 

Round the desolate place of her scarred countryside 

Lead your men with the trophies of a freeland's long gleanings. 

And where'er wanton sires, trebly arming their chiefs. 

Urge the might of false code in an emprise that leaves 

The trail of the serpent through lands foully bled, 

Right of way for all freemen ! Theirs to bruise the serpent's head 1 



14 POEMS 

Patriots' Day 

Concord, 1775 — 1901 

Think you they are dead who a century ago 
Wrought out the new gospel that all men might know 
Of the kinghood of freemen that could not degrade 
With tariff and tribute to imperial crown paid 
Its inherent and God-given right? 
In each clang of the bell that ushers the light, 
In each budding flower that 'neath tender green hides, 
In each swelling leaf on the cold mountains' sides, 
In each flash of the gun and the drum-beat sonorous, 
In each loyal heart throbbing high with the chorus. 
Read the promise of life, not the sentence of death, 
The patriots' day ceased not with his breath ! 

And why? what guerdon immortal had these yeomen of old 

That centuries hence their fame shall be told? 

Did they dream of the laurel wreath, fadeless, serene, 

That destiny plaits for its own kings and queens? 

Ah, no! they but scorned such as trinket and bauble. 

For aught else than plain duty they cared not a ruble. 

Not threat nor attaint nor punishment drear 

Held terror for hearts unaccustomed to fear, 

The whip of earth's monarchs, the curse of its peers. 

The gloom of its dungeons or the scorn of its sneers! 

Not prize, nor award, nor honor, nor pelf 

Might purchase the title they claimed to themselves. 

To their hardly won fields, to their homesteads so dear. 

Voice of honor untarnished, thought untrammeled and clear! 

Ah, sires heroic! souls lofty and grand. 

Though ye wrought not for glory your memorial shall stand 

Where, untrained, your bent brows once pierced the thick smoke 

Of a monarch's misrule when his minions' lines broke, 

And light, steady, triumphant, light eternal, serene. 

Alluring, transcendent, flashed the broad hills between, 

Impartial and glowing 'bove proud Britain's blades keen, 



POEMS 15 

'Bove flint-lock and spear-heads, and bare arms true as steel, 

'Bove musket and dnim-head, rough utensils of strife, 

'Bove artificer's bugle and the farmer's rude fife, 

A wide nexus of glory that held all in its gleam 

And sent the shadows all trembling to die on the stream. 

There ye stood, Minute Men! stood facing the dawn 

Of an era of freedom whose oncoming mom 

Surged resistless and mighty as the vast ocean's sweep 

'Neath the track of the tempest when deep calleth to deep; 

And your low range of vision leaped its boundaries to scan 

The new day-spring of promise whose late beams should span 

All heaven's high dome with a covenant flame 

That should lead forth a nation from its bondage to gain 

The heritage promised. And the way marks ye set ! 

Lord God of the nations! Can we ever forget? 

Stone heaped upon stone ! the Republic's bed rock 

Displacing forever by that first battle's shock 

Drift of empire's sand 'cross the new Western zone, 

And founding on Virtue, Freedom's long promised home. 



1 6 POEMS 



First Anniversary, Hawthorne Chapter, O. E. S. 

Concord Junction, 1896 

Round our star in the East since its mild ray first shone 
On that nineteenth of April now one year agone 
Our five loyal sisters have told and retold 
The significant story of heroines old. 

By its soft rays we glimpsed Jephthah's daughter's sweet eyes, 
Fond Ruth's deathless love and Naomi's surprise, 
Esther's fearless devotion to her own country's weal, 
Martha's sorrowful care brought to Jesus to heal; 

Electa, blameless herself, with sweet charity covers 
All the folly and sin and misfortune of others. 
Five rays of a star, five links of a chain, 
Forged centuries ago in white furnace of pain, 

Now girdling the world with an infinite love, 

Pure as sunshine, true as steel, yet soft as the dove 

That sights gathered mist clouds o'er mountain peaks rolled, 

That brings back the myrtle, type of love, to its home. 

So the mother, the daughter, widow, sister, and wife 
Symbolize forever the best thing in life. 
That best thing is love; love alone is eternal. 
In the midst of our star stands its altar supernal, 

Uplifting our offering of peace and good-will. 
Would we make of them benison to those who may fill 
Our places hereafter? We need but be true 
To the lofty ideals here presented to view. 

Walk the plain path of duty, be it dull, be it bright. 
Till we reach the wellspring that must rise to the height 
Of its source. That source is in God, whose calm waters deep 
Must still mirror the star when earth's children shall sleep, 



POEMS 17 

Shall all sleep on her breast in a dreamless repose 
That echoes no struggles, that voices no woes, 
That recks not of earthquake or whirlwind or strife, 
Or mortal desire, but close, close to the life 

Of that calm centre of peace round which tempests revolve 
Solves the mystery of death our dear brothers have solved 
Who, one year ago, clasped hands round our star 
Whose invisible fingers now beckon afar. 

And now as pilot steers his homeward turning bark 
Through vexing seas where hover night and dark. 
And, careful, strains his eyes to watch the polar star 
That guides him safe inside the harbor bar, 
So we, through untrod paths to lighten all the way, 
Look to the Eastern Star that heralds dawn of day. 



i8 POEMS 

Fill the Bill 

Summer, 1910 

Teach — teach — teach her? 
Sun's up, you charming creature. 

See? See? 
Wide-eyed the song-mate's new plumed for the fray; 
BHnd nest and dulled wings bar her right of way; 

Light and dark lay their covers 

Where my lady-bird hovers. 

Sun, wind and rain dip the leaves, 

Nature's lien holds while she breathes 
An even assent to fresh life's pleading note 
From her nest in the wild where dreams are afloat, 

Teach, teach, teach her? 
Not I, the knowing creature! 
See? See? 

Teach, teach, teach her? 
O, my, you poaching creature: 

Quit! Quit! 
But cherries! paired deep behind sunlit screen! 
Padded worms and slim bugs, just wait to be seen! 

Pick 'em up in a hurry; 

Trim 'em up and then scurry; 

Earth's her own for a season. 

And the bent of her reason 
Is, fill the bill, the bill, crude, noisy and small, 
But she keeps on till petite voices call 

Teach, teach, teach her? 
Pardon the doting creature? 

She's it. 
And a hit, a hit, a hit, a-a-a hit! 



POEMS 19 



Twentieth Century 

" Not Arms and the Man, 
But tools and the man." 

Written January 1, 1900, at Concord, Mass. 

Hail! twentieth century, Argus eyed, 
Renowned for light and leading 

Toward your famed one hundred years 
Creation wide is speeding. 

To hearts that break with strain and stress 
And thought that wakens weary, 

To eyes grown dim through long unrest. 
And souls oppressed and dreary, 

O grant swift vision to perceive 
What your clear sight discernest. 

Your quickened understanding give 
To minds sincere and earnest. 

Compel the roving glance to rest 
Where your search-li^ht engages 

The hosts of night that long have pressed 
Their conflict on the ages. 

Then, far and wide within the gleam, 
All folly's mists rise scattered, 

And vice and sin, her next of kin, 
With feeble ranks and shattered, 

Fall backward, driven close on crime, 
And, massing, surge together, 

Van, flank and rear, a warring line 
That rids the world of either. 



20 POEMS 



Then, side by side within the glow, 
Wisdom's full ranks advancing. 

With arms replaced by hook and plow, 
And peace-wrought banners glancing. 

Again shall prune the immortal tree. 
And graft it for the bearing 

Of life that fits the century, 

Its structural birth-mark wearing. 

Again shall break the fettered soil. 

And till for the unfolding 
Of cryptic germs that wait the toil 

Of kneeling workers' moulding. 

Again proclaim the harvest home, 
As course the stars at gloaming 

Toward an eternal sunlit zone 
Where dawns a better morning 

When hosts bivouac in Virtue's camp, 
Where leap the fires reviving, 

And allied forces sound the taps 
O'er nineteen centuries' striving. 



POEMS 21 

Conscience 
Team Work — Old and New 

1620. 

Blythe Conscience o'erworked, but forevermore game, 
Rounded up the full load of ship Mayflower fame. 
From topmast to keel she provisioned the same, 
Taking standing room only for her own modest claim. 
She steered that test craft through measureless brine 
With the still small pull of her wireless line. 
Her mother-wit-chart, aiding vision divine. 
Made the hit of all centuries — a Canaan on time! 
And though never coast-Hght cast a gleam on their way, 
Her pilgrim crew won beyond Cape Cod Bay: 
There, with Plymouth Rock sane, they decided to stay. 
And hold down those sand dunes in strict Mayflower way. 

1920. 

Now, strangely named craft patrol air, sea, and shore, 
With candle-power draft of a miUion or more. 
All trailing search-lights to the continents' core. 
Make a target of conscience (she's a terrible bore), 
But she's no easy mark. Later milestones to rate 
With the first on the spot in her Canaan estate. 
Her giant strides counter the humming world's gait 
To short-circuit those squadrons and war's din abate. 
In her bodiless way she's a world arbitrator. 
Of most fetching "notes" she's the champion dictator, 
And all the round earth from poles to equator 
May have quiet peace when its hosts federate her. 
Since she's all the world's collar, all the world's bits 
(Her best brands are marked, "Made in Massachusetts") 
We'd best sample them all, with true pilgrim wit, 
And sequester such heads as can't be made fit 
For fellowship true with her newest world-deal. 
While her old epic grand, unpliant as steel, 



22 POEMS 

Has place on the scroll * of the old Bay state seal, 
'Twill turn pilgrim ghosts pink at thought of the zeal 
Their conscience code left to the ages as dower 
Co-heirs with the Baj'^ state match the code of Mayflower! 
In that code of salt-marshes, clean for three hundred years 
Through deeds of plain people, their purpose, their tears, 
There's enough conscience team work and urge of ideas 
To girdle the planets a few more hundred years! 

* Massachusetts motto: " With the sword she seeks quiet peace under liberty." 

The Message of Those Lilies 

"And upon the top of the pillars there was lily work: so were they finished." — 
1 Kings vii. 22. 

Turn your thoughts to the land, 

Where the mire and the silt of ages long past 

To the depths of some still inland lake were once cast. 

Dank, slimy, unwholesome, there is boni in its ooze 

A close folded bud; shall it haply refuse 

The darkly canopied way it must take 

Toward light? Wise, v;ise little bud in the depths of the lake ! 

Straight upward it pushes, straight down it holds tight, 

Till color and fragrance and beauty unite 
In the lily that dies in your hand. 

Turn your hands to their task ! 

Handcraft is divine since Jesus the carpenter traced 
His pattern for everyday life. No time is for waste ! 
Use your night of despair, with its long hours of gloom. 
As a way through the dark that shall lead to the bloom 
Of lilies high on the temple, God's and your own; 
Then take courage, heart, courage! you carve not alone! 
Till, in some dusky twilight, you shall raise tired eyes in 

joy and surprise. 
Ere the tinge of eternity's morning shall rise, 

To the lilies that grew 'neath your hand. 



POEMS 23 

Cripple's Consolation 

Concord, 1904 

(On seeing morning-glories growing on an old wheel.) 

Old wheels, once parcel of a cart, 

You've left the highway dusty, 
Your fractured ribs are wide apart. 

Your riven tires grow rusty. 

Your hub's unbound with ancient rust. 

Your tongue's a pastel story; 
Ah ! you no longer raise the dust. 

You're plumed with morning glory! 

Your quiet axle holds you true, 

While strolling breezes tangle 
Rich blooms of purple, white, and blue 

With early dews a-spangle. 

You heed not all the busy hum 

Of rubber-tired sulky, 
Of broomstick train or rattling drum. 

Or lumber wagon bulky, 

Stale traffic of the waking town 

In which you once had part! 
Your carting age has broken down, 

You've lesion of the heart! 

You doze beside the sleeping mill. 

You start, perhaps, with nightmare! 
You listen when the whippoorwill, 

With sympathetic candor, 

Recalls the blows of other days 

That fell on ponies ready. 
Who'd many a brush with spick-span bays 

The while you held them steady 



24 POEMS 



Till dusty foam flakes spattered far 
Behid your rear companions; 

You set the pace that won, aha! 
You passed the foaming stallions! 

I fear you kept the pace that kills, 

In nascent days of varnish, 
I wonder if your fibre thrills 

Again to stretch the harness 

And hear once more your metal grate 

Along resistant gravel, 
Endure once more the heavy weight, 

Once more the highway travel. 

Or doth contentment fill your days 

Till vesper sparrow vary 
The strophic song that overlays 

Yon water-banded prairie; 

And swift his aria quiet all 
Your ghosts of past endeavor. 

His shy, sweet note in benison fall 
To lay them all forever? 

Old wheels, you've chosen the better part 

To rest here in the gloaming, 
And picture forth with honest art 

An age unfit for roaming. 

And here, while summer dawnings oft 

Convoy the bee to rifle 
The victor wreath you bear aloft 

(Snatched from no vanquished rival), 



POEMS 25 

Support, tho' youthful tendrils bind, 

The hardy glory climbers. 
And hear their handsome trumpets wind 

Task limit for old timers. 

And, resting thus, while Autumn lays 

Brave tints up wood and marshland, 
You'll see your dim perspective raise 

A glow that baffles draughtsmen. 

That even glow which maps the gauge 

Of Indian summer's treasure, 
Encompassing both youth and age 

Like sharing in its measure. 

No age but hath its epic new. 

No age but hath its mission, 
Time's level ground plane thru' and thru' 

Is shot for inward vision. 

And e'er shall wait on unvexed gaze 

Of crippled age or station. 
Renewal of that youth which sways 

The fortunes of creation. 

Who holds the morning-glory up, 

Be it aging wheel or sinner, 
Creates the glowing victor's cup, 

And makes himself a winner. 



26 POEMS 



Yellow Violets 

Summer, 1920 

On Earth. 

Near a moss-crowned wall, where tardy springs wait, 

In a shade only violets can brave 

Will come hardy blooms, at summer's mandate 

On wild field plants, a comrade once gave. 

Thru' sharp years, the gift shall renew, 

Impress and seal of boy comradeship rare 

Will meet me above where no evil thing blew. 

In Heaven, 

We bud, we sow, we scatter 
We seed beside our mother 
It would not seem to matter. 
Love makes us what we seem, 
We wish it were a dream. 



